Two women chatter close by. He hears, but he doesn't. They don't matter. He can't think straight. His mind is like a broken record. One word repeats over and over.

Maya.

Maya.

Maya.

Why won't someone tell me she is okay?

The cheery red tie hanging around his neck feels like a noose. Subconsciously, he hooks a finger through and loosens it. He gulps.

It's... all my fault.

A scream.

His head snaps up in surprise. Was it her? He doesn't know.

This place is full of pain.

Physical.

Emotional.

Another scream. It wasn't her.

His whole body aches.

Tension.

It's his fault she is here. He let it happen.

He didn't know it would turn out this way.

Panic.

She had been so brave.

He was a mess.

She squeezed his hand as they wheeled her away. She was pale.

Scared. What if he never saw her again?

I should have said "I love you."

He hopes she knows.

Of course she knows.

A small consolation.

He balls his fist. White knuckles.

Bad things happen in places like this. People die.

Accidents.

Mistakes.

He shouldn't think like that. She is going to be fine.

But what if she isn't? I'll never forgive myself.

He cradles his head in his hands.

Complications.

That's what the man had told him.

What does that mean? Why don't they explain themselves?

That felt like days ago. It could have been minutes. He has no idea.

A bead of sweat trickles from his brow.

Is it warm in here?

The clock above his head strains to tick over.

Its batteries are flat. It goes nowhere. It struggles, but has no power to move.

Doomed to repeat the same second.

Over.

And over.

He feels like the clock. He's been here forever. Unable to move. Unable to function.

The sick feeling in his stomach grows progressively worse. It's the only thing that indicates time passing at all.

Maya. I'm so sorry.

He sits up, leaning against the wall. Cold plaster cools his back. He closes his eyes.

A woman shuffles past him.

Blue eyes snap open expectantly. Is she there to talk to him?

She barely notices him. He sighs.

He just wants to know.

Someone tell me she is okay.

He drums his fingers on his knees. Blue slacks stand out against the white of everything else.

Anyone...

He runs a hand through his spikes.

Please. I just want to know.

"Mr Wright?"

He stands with a jolt. Eyes wide. Expression questioning.

The woman standing before him is in her mid fifties. Somewhat dowdy. Business-like. Her face gives away no secrets.

"This way please." She instructs formally.

He can't move. Fear keeps him frozen.

"Maya... is she... is she...okay?" he stammers.

The woman looks at him, puzzled. He's really in a bad way. The fright on his face as he inquires about the condition of his beloved tugs at her heart strings. Her serious visage melts into a soft smile. She takes his hand, attempting to lead him down the hall. He remains glued to the spot.

She turns to face him.

"Mr Wright, your wife is doing just fine."

He relaxes before her eyes. Tension drains from his body. He smiles. Colour begins returning to his pallid countenance.